Time in the foundation had no teeth. It did not gnaw, it did not age, and it did not pass in the ways of the world above. Malphas and Lyra existed as dual pulses, a rhythmic synchronicity tethered to the bedrock of Oakhaven. They were the city's subconscious, the silent architects of its stability, yet even the most solid stone eventually yields to the relentless drip of eternity.
"I can no longer feel the scent of the rain," Malphas murmured, his voice now nothing more than the rustle of wind through narrow fissures. His consciousness was thinning, spreading out into the capillaries of the city’s drainage, the deep earth, and the granite walls of the old cathedral. "The sensory data of the world... it is becoming a sequence of tremors and temperatures. I am losing the edges of my name."
